


walk me home (in the dead of night)

by ricciardos



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, charles and pierre explore the secrets of the universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24770026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: He looks up at the dark of the mental box he has created, expecting to see stars.There are none.(Charles tries to figure it out. Whatever the hell it may be.)
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	walk me home (in the dead of night)

Charles is a fan of the idea of self-determinism. 

(Self-determination: the process by which a person controls their own life.)

In Charles’s defence, surely everyone can see the appeal. The romantic, blustery idea of having your fate thrust into your own hands. 

The idea that you are confined only by the walls that you build around yourself. 

In the dark, Charles is stumbling. 

He stumbles around the walls that he has built up over the years. His fingertips touch, feel, _grab_ at the surface of these walls, so smooth that his fingers keep sliding off the surface and back down to his sides. 

In the dark, Charles is stumbling. 

It’s so silent in this box he has created, that eventually the silence becomes deafening. He can only hear the beating of his heart in his ears, when all he is searching for is validation, a sign that he has made the right decision, that he will be alright, that he-

In the dark, Charles is stumbling. 

He stumbles and trips over his own feet, the ground caving from underneath him. He screams, and tries to latch on to something to keep him from falling further. 

He is panting. He is sweating. 

Time is fluid in his mind. He isn’t sure how much time has passed, but he can feel the shirt stick to his back with sweat. 

He looks up at the dark of the mental box he has created, expecting to see stars. 

(Rewarded for the effort-)

(The effort that he has put in to hold on. The effort to hold on, to root himself firmly to the ground in the name that all choices have brought him here, and that he will find a way to get himself up because he always does, and he always rises-)

He looks up at the dark of the mental box he has created, expecting to see stars. 

There are none. 

-

So, Charles finds light in other corners of the world. 

He finds light in the Ferrari garage and paddock, where engineers and fans alike fawn over him. The engineers ensure the car is to his utmost standards, asking him for inputs over even the smallest things. The fans swarm him, ask for photos, ask for signatures, wish him luck for upcoming races. They promise they are his number one _tifosi_ , and Charles always laughs in grace at their confidence. 

(They tell him he’s doing it right.) 

He finds light in the glow of the simulator that keeps him up at night. Where he puts in hundreds of laps at the same track, hoping to pull a tenth of a second or too off the timings, as if they translate to on-track performance. 

He tells himself he will be happy on the top step of the podium. When he holds the world championship trophy in his hands, feeling the cool of the metal and the smell of champagne and _victory_ -

Charles finds his worth in the conceivable choice he has made, that he will do whatever it takes to succeed. 

(The statistics on the monitor tell him he’s doing it right.) 

He finds light in the glittering nightlife of whichever city they are in. Where he stumbles into the nearest bar with or without a race win, a different person latched by his side every time he leaves. 

They speak in drunken tongue, telling him how good his race was. They whisper drunken promises that one day, he’ll be the youngest ever world champion. They grab onto his arm, proclaim to the empty street in front of them that together, they are invincible.

(Charles can’t even remember who “they” is.) 

(But all he cares about is the fact that they tell him he’s doing it right.) 

(Is he though?) 

He always starts the next morning with Pierre knocking on his door with a bottle of hangover medicine his Mother taught him how to make. His face is etched with disapproval, with worry, but more often than not there is pity. 

Charles doesn’t want Pierre’s pity. 

It feels like a slap in the face. That maybe, Pierre doesn’t feel Charles is doing it right. 

(What is _it_ ?) 

He meets Pierre’s cool blue eyes as he passes over the medicine bag and for a moment-

For a moment, Charles is taken back to that dark mental box. He is falling, and falling, and falling, through the tendrils of his internalised shame and thought but suddenly there is a lifeline dangling in front of him. 

A decision he can make: grab on and hold tight and pray and pray and pray that it is enough to keep him steady, even for those precious few seconds. 

Charles deliberates whether he should-

“Take care of yourself, Charles. Call me when you stop feeling like shit.”

And just like that. 

Just like that, Charles is falling again. 

-

Ferrari schedules appointments with the team psychologist for all their Drivers. 

_For optimal mental strength and performance_ , Mattia says. 

Charles doesn’t have much of a say in whether or not he wants to be scrutinised from the outside in by some therapist, but he does it anyway.

In part because Mattia writes his checks. 

In part because these are team orders. 

In part because the therapist gives out pretty nice cookies every time he goes. 

Recently, they’ve started having discussions about the pressures of racing and career management. 

Charles hates it. 

Mainly because he’s just been handed a piece of paper, asking him to write down what he feels about his journey so far. 

_Does it have to be about F1?_

_Your journey is anything you make it to be._

5 minutes has passed, and the paper is still empty. 

(Charles won’t lie to himself — he feels pretty fucking stupid at the fact that he can’t bring himself to write down anything. It feels like a school exercise all over again, except the entire world seems to be grading him.) 

It’s not like he’s short of things to write. 

_Euphoria — Monza 2019._

_Humbled — by the roar of the fans and the kind teasing of those who watch his  
Twitch. _

_Saddened — by the loss of Jules and Anthoine._

It’s not like Charles hasn’t lived a life well lived, per se.

So why does his mouth feel dry? 

His pen is hovering over the paper. 

The therapist is arching an eyebrow, but keeps a neutral expression. 

Charles wants her to smile. 

He wants her to tell him that it’s alright, he doesn’t need to face the task of deciphering whatever the hell he’s feeling into black and white words of French, because frankly, he doesn’t know if he can do it. 

There is no comfort in the words and judgement that he accords himself that he is doing it right. 

The 45 minute session comes to a close with no real progress. Charles just dances around the exercise, giving perfectly manicured answers to whatever the therapist tries to probe into because he knows for a fact that this evaluation is going to Mattia. 

By the end of it, at least he has one answer. 

(It — the purpose, the meaning, of his human.)

-

Pierre and Charles end up next to each other on the Drivers’ Parade, waving to the  
crowd in Australia. 

Some of them scream Charles’s name. He smiles, and gives a thumbs up to them. 

“You never called me.” Pierre remarks casually, leaning next to Charles in his Toro Rosso cap. 

Charles freezes. 

He turns to Pierre. 

How do you delicately mention to someone that over the past few days, you’ve been so consumed by the thought of what it means to be human and the way he lives his life that you’ve forgotten to return his call? 

_Maybe it’s because he said to call when you stop feeling like shit._

_Well. There’s his excuse._

_He still feels like shit._

“I forgot.”

He waits for Pierre to offer his decisive judgment. His rebuke to Charles that he shouldn’t have forgotten something like this, that he should get it together, that-

“Alright then. You have my number when you need it.”

Pierre squeezes Charles’s hand, and weaves his way through the Drivers to find Antonio. 

The bus rooftop is crowded. Charles can feel more eyes on him than anyone else. 

Judgement, from the crowd.

Charles is thrown back into the box but this time, there is something there to catch him. He doesn’t know what it is, but it holds him there even as he struggles to find his footing and grip the walls again. 

The search for your purpose is tiring. 

Charles, in his attempts to grip the walls and look for the stars up above has forgotten how fast he has been running, how truly exhausted he is from trying to validate himself from judgements of those around him. Harsh, unflinching judgments that demand they only see the best of Charles. 

The prospective youngest world champion. The prodigy. The future of Scuderia Ferrari. 

It is only when they see this, that they determine he is doing something right. 

They need results. 

Pierre needs none. 

He too, is unflinching in his judgement. 

_Call me when you stop feeling like shit._

But he is also kind. He is unwavering. 

Charles does not know how fast he has been running, how exhausted he is until someone stands behind him and gives him the permission to fall and fail. 

So, Charles falls. 

And Pierre is there to catch him. 

-

He calls Pierre right after the race and arranges for lunch. He’s nervous that Pierre will reject him, that he might be busy, or-

Pierre replies in amusement, telling Charles that all he had to do was ask. 

For the first time in a long time, Charles doesn’t spend Sunday at a club with house music a little too loud and vodka a little too strong. He doesn’t really need to have people clutching his arm for support as they swagger out, whispering promises of invincibility and adventure. 

Because right now — sitting in a cheap restaurant with slightly undercooked pasta, listening to the ways that Pierre tells Charles that he used to be a prick back in Prema- 

Charles realises the purpose of his human is not to resist all judgement or yearn for it. 

He realises the purpose of his human comes solely from the judgement of those people that matter. 

The people that will hold his hand and sit with him in the dark, inside the box he has created for himself. 

The person who will hold his hand and steady him as he searches for a lifeline, only to realise that he already has one. 

(He used to think about the decision of grabbing someone and holding on, only to realise the decision has already been made for him.)

Pierre snaps his fingers in front of Charles’s face. 

“Have you been listening to me, or am I just another boring French man?”

Charles allows his face to break out into a smile. A genuine one. 

He opens his mouth to retaliate. 

_In the box, his fingers close around the lifeline._

Perhaps, he will never let go.

Until then, Pierre’s fingers close around his even tighter.

As it turns out, the stars were never shining at the top of the box. Nor did they shine in the Ferrari garage, the harsh light of the simulator, or the club lights. 

They shine in the brightest blue of Pierre’s eyes, the gleam of the silverware at the restaurant, and maybe, just maybe — the assurance that if Pierre is beside him, Charles must be doing it right.

**Author's Note:**

> This concept has been sitting in my WIPs for a while, and I think I’ve rewritten this AT LEAST 4 times. i just think it’s something intrinsically human to search for validation that we’ve made the right choice, and that we’re playing the game of life the right way — so i wanted to explore that further 
> 
> my tumblr is @ricciardos-and-gang [kudos and comments always appreciated in this economy]


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